A City on the Edge of Nowhere (Hunt: Showdown)
by Katsuhiro
Summary: On the edge of the world, they hunt. A clandestine war against horrors unspeakable. Their heroism unseen, their treachery forgotten. Rise up you dead men, and live to die another day.
1. Chapter 1

"_Their flesh will be your bounty."_

\- The American Hunter's Association, unattributed

* * *

They met us at the border. Six men in hooded cloaks, toting rifles. They disarmed each of us in turn, manhandling us into a squalid carriage drawn by four half-starved horses. I carried no weapons of my own, and shuffled aboard without complaint.

The men beside me were unknown to me. We exchanged cursory nods, with the terse diplomacy of men unaccustomed to the word. The carriage reeked, as we rollicked along in the dwindling half-light. Dank sweat and nervous tension. Stale breath and gun oil. The sun sank further in the sky.

The carriage rocked to a halt. There comes two thumps to the side of the carriage in quick succession. We disembarked, heavy boots squelched in sucking muck. The fabric of my shirt clung to me, soaked through. My skin itched.

Stillwater, the town was called. In truth it was no town at all. You will not find it on any map, nor see it in any official archive. It is a blank spot on the edge of civilisation, a convenient absence. If the war ever came here, I saw no sign of it. It seemed a sorry and ramshackle place, forgotten by time itself.

More than anything else, Stillwater served a purpose. When I say it was no town at all, allow me to be more specific. Stillwater had a postal office, taverns and all the accoutrement you might associate with the backwater it was. But it only served one purpose.

It was a staging area.

Scores of men and women hurried to and fro, heads bowed, brows taut with worry or masked in steely resolve. All were armed. They carried all manner of weapons here: wicked bill hooks and long-necked rifles, brass knuckles and machetes. Everything from crossbows and hatchets to improvised hybrid weapons, of a type I had never seen before, and have never seen since.

The high walls of the town were a throwback to the old frontier. Wooden palisades, hastily erected. Curiously, all the cannon pointed in one direction. Toward the swamp, that sweltering Bayou.

There was nothing uniform to the hunters, either. Some were trappers and trackers, cloaked in hoods and swaddled in rags. Others were gawking cowpokes and ranch hands, former slaves and gamblers down on their luck. Everything from bright eyed novices to and career soldiers, hardened and sneering. I saw former Confederates rub shoulders with former Yankees without quarrel, as they tramped joylessly about their business. You could hear the hammering of the smithery, and the taverns too. They were the only source of cheer. The air was punctuated with laughs, cries and angry shouts. Occasionally, a bottle would burst in a tinkle of glass and a great raucous cheer would go up. I glanced around, absorbing my surroundings. A post-office, a town hall, and a series of squat row-houses, all repurposed into make-shift billets. I don't recall ever seeing a single normal person. This was place of killers.

It was an oppressive, humid place. If I do not see it again, I will be glad.

A flinty-eyed Yankee intercepted us, with a nasal accent courtesy of nose thrice-broken in opposing directions. He screwed his brow at the pieces of paper in his hands, then turned his head and spat. He waved a hand.

"You four, with me."

We shuffled through, dutifully ducking into an imposing tent at the edge of the muck-splattered road. Wind chimes and charms jangled in the breeze as we brushed by.

The air in the tent was less humid. Dimly lit. Strangely cold. Pennants and charms trailed from the roof of the tenant like jungle vines. The smell of incense was overwhelming.

A man lurked behind an expansive desk, with a face that seemed to sag and fade into the shadows of the tent. His eyes were doleful as he assessed each of us in turn.

"These are the latest?" he rumbled.

"Picked 'em up in Baton Rouge", The Yankee nodded, "right where you said they'd be."

"And they are aware of what we do here? Of what's at stake?"

The Yankee shrugged. "Figured you'd tell 'em when the time was right."

"I see. Very well."

The old man rumbled to himself and adjusted the heavy tome on the table before him. He licked a finger and turned a page, before those rheumy eyes settled on me, and me alone. I instantly felt two feet tall. His eyes flicked to my chafed wrists, then back up. He smiled, ever so slightly.

"You're the prisoner."

The others looked at me. I ignored them.

"Flaherty?" the old man ventured.

"Flynn."

Another cursory flip of the page. I began to wonder whether this was all an act, some penchant for the theatrical. But there it was: my name, my misdeeds transcribed in exhaustive detail. Updated as recently as last week, when I buried a glass in a bowsie's eye. I still maintain he had it coming.

"You came over on the boat." Flick went the page. "Looking for your father. Found the Struggle instead. Fenians. Dynamite. Alcohol. Quite the potent mix, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Flynn?"

"You were testing me."

The old man only chuckled, as he rose to his feet. We each took a half step back as he emerged from the shadows. For all his advanced age, the man was a giant. Six feet and five inches. When he rested his hands on the table, knuckles down, we could see his hands were the size of shovels. Three of his fingers were missing from his left hand. He leaned forward in the lamp light, eyes narrowed as he towered over us.

"There will be no whiskey for you here, Mr. Flynn. Or violence beyond that which serves our immediate purpose. Whatever quarrel you have with the Crown, that's in the past now. But you're a fighter. That's good. That's useful. We can offer you something the government cannot: a true purpose. A clean slate."

The old man addressed them all now.

"The work we do here is important. Whether you're a heathen or deem it God's work, doesn't matter to me. What matters is that the job is done. You will be paid, and paid handsomely." His voice turned grave as his expression hardened. "But you must never tell anyone what we do here today."

Nobody dared breathe. The old man continued.

"Mr. Knelfer here will brief you on the details. You will be given bread, board. Access to the armoury. You are permitted to use your own weapons of choice, of course, but use of these weapons within the confines of Stillwater will be met with the strictest sanction. Do I make myself clear?"

I found myself nodding along with all the others.

It was one of the young ranch-hands that eventually broke the silence.

"But what's the job?"

The old man chuckled at that. I felt a curling twist in my stomach.

"Why the only job that matters, boy." the old man smiled, a glint of hunger in his eye. "The Hunt."


	2. Chapter 2

You're going to ask me about the stories swirling around the AHA. The loose talk. The so-called rituals.

I am many things. I am a drunk. I am scoundrel. I am, most assuredly, a murderer. But thrice damned as I am, I am not without principles. I gave my word to the old man, there in that tent in the dwindling half-light. You want to know more? Go to Stillwater. The Louisiana Case is closed, but the evidence is still there, if you know where to look. If you know _how_ to look. Go, and see for yourself.

But I must warn you, lad: you may like what you find.

The American Hunters Association will deny it of course. They always do. They are a private organisation, and the process behind their selection is as arcane and opaque as the very forces they combat. Some members are invitation only. Skilled hunters, respected war heroes. Status and personal economic status mean nothing to them. Are you skilled? Are you proficient in your actions, discrete in your application of basic principles? Then you will receive a letter, containing a time and a place. They only ever ask once.

Others are opportunists. Local hustlers, vagabonds. Vetted, of course, but otherwise untested. I was one of these, the necessary rabble. Greener than an Irish ballad, in enough trouble with the law to have no other choice. But our presence was necessary. For every successful incursion into the quarantine zone, it bought more time for the more practiced practitioners to do what needed to be done.

Practitioners? Yes, it's an odd word. But I choose my words carefully. As should you: you never know who is listening, who might be recording our words here and now. Never assume you are alone: that was the first lesson you learned, out there in the foetid swamp.

Henriksen told me that originally it was different. That when the outbreak first occurred, and panic rose to fever pitch, a brute force approach was adopted. When the garrisons were overwhelmed, local authorities emptied the local prisons to meet the sheer demand for manpower. A mistake, of course. The convicts were ill-disciplined, poorly trained. Motivated only by lofty promises of freedom for service, released from chains and sent out into that damned swamp with little more than an X on a map and a revolver.

None returned, of course. Whether they turned on each other or fell prey to horrors of a more eldritch nature, I cannot say. I was only told that the following summer was the worst of it. The numbers of the damned had swollen considerably. By then the Association had full control over the Louisiana Case. Their rules were applied: no more than three. None but those that were Sanctioned by the Association. Inducted in the proper manner.

But I must bite my tongue, and speak not of such things. Pass me another glass, will you? Not the bourbon, this time. The whiskey. Yes.

Come, let me tell you lad. About the first time I went out there, into that damned place.

Cheers.


End file.
